Behave Yourself
by Anime1Manga2Lover3
Summary: Sherlock is visited by a psychologist sent by Scotland Yard. John is worried that he'll be sent to an asylum. Just a little one-shot I wrote for fun. No pairing.


John thumped into the flat, a scowl on his face as he regarded the man laying on the couch. "Sherlock." Sherlock didn't move or respond in any way. "Sherlock," John repeated. Nothing. "I ran into Lestrade, and he said that the Yard has determined you a threat. They've decided that you've got to be evaluated by a psychologist. She's coming sometime between now and nine. Thought you'd like a warning."

"I knew they'd do this eventually," Sherlock spoke at last, though his eyes remained closed, his expression unchanged.

"You do realize that if she decides you have serious problems, which you do, they could bar you from the cases, or lock you up somewhere? You've got to take this seriously, Sherlock. This isn't one of your little games."

"Oh, but it is a game, John," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and grinning at the grim-faced John. "One that I shall win."

A knock from downstairs silenced them. Sherlock sat up on the couch, his usual bored expression back on his face.

"What can I help you with?" Mrs. Hudson had answered the door.

"Is this where Mr. Sherlock Holmes lives?" a woman's voice answered.

"Yes, he's right upstairs. Would you like to see him?"

"That would be lovely."

The door shut, and two pairs of feet ascended the staircase.

"Sherlock, you've got a visitor," Mrs. Hudson said. "I'll bring up some tea, how's that?"

"Oh no, we don't need any tea, thank you," the second woman said.

Mrs. Hudson left, and Sherlock was left to study the psychologist. Tall, six feet at least, with an athletic build. Faint scar on the side of the right knee, probably surgery for a torn ligament from basketball. No perfume, very little makeup, no ring or other jewelry. Single, and not particularly interested in dating. Tan skin, narrow brown eyes and frizzy black hair. Middle Eastern. One hand grasped a clip board, the nails with ragged edges. Money problems, judging by the cheap seams of her suit jacket and the scuffs on her shoes.

"Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, looking between the two of them.

"That's him, Ms…" John waited for her to give her name.

"Lambert," she said shortly.

"Please, Ms. Lambert, have a seat," John offered politely.

Lambert sat and turned to Sherlock. "So, Mr. Holmes, as you're no doubt aware, given the hurry with which your friend left the station, I'm here to assess you for psychological problems. I'll start with a simple word association. I'll tell you a word, you tell me the first thing you think of."

"Really, you're going with word association? How boring," Sherlock groaned. "I thought you were going to at least be worth my while."

Lambert raised her eyebrows and wrote something on her clipboard. John shot Sherlock an angry look. Behave, he mouthed.

"Gamble."

"Predictable."

"Balcony."

"Jump."

"Result."

"Risk."

"Cloud."

"Boring."

"Mask."

"Invisible."

"Life."

"Boring."

"Death."

"Boring."

"Knife."

"Kill."

"Police."

"Idiots."

"Breathing."

"Boring."

"You seem to find many things boring," Lambert commented. "Why is that?"

"There's no point in them. They're obvious. Next question." Sherlock didn't seem to consider this a game anymore, merely a waste of his time.

"I'm going to ask your friend some questions about you now. If he would like you to leave the room…" She looked at John.

"He can stay," John said. "He'll probably know all my answers anyway."

"Right. So, would you find Mr. Holmes to be talkative?"

"He doesn't so much talk with you as talk at you."

"Explain."

"He… bounces ideas off you, I guess. Although I think he just has to say them out loud. One time I was gone all day and he just kept talking like I was still there!" John chuckled nervously.

Lambert nodded and made a note.

"Does he find fault with others?"

John glanced at Sherlock, not sure how to make his arrogance sound presentable. "He… thinks at a much higher level than most people, so… he does have a tendency to, um, point out other people's… shortcomings."

"Mm-hmm." Another note on the paper. "How would you describe Mr. Holmes?"

"He's a very… unusual person, I suppose. Brilliant, but odd."

"Could you elaborate on how he is 'odd'?"

"I believe that I can answer this question," Sherlock cut in before John could answer. "It is considered strange to own a skull, or to store various body parts in the fridge. Playing the violin or lying on the couch for hours is also odd, but I assure you that all of these things help me concentrate."

Lambert scribbled something down. "As a final question, I would like a demonstration of the deductive abilities you are so famous for."

"You played basketball competitively, now only recreationally due to an injury sustained on your right knee. You are single, and are not currently looking for a boyfriend. Your parents were from the Middle East, probably Iran, although you were raised in England. You're also nervous about money. You-"

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, that will suffice," Lambert said, ending his little speech. "I believe I've seen enough." She stood and walked to the doorway, surveying Sherlock.

"What have you decided?" John asked nervously, glancing between the unreadable Lambert and the bored Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes does have psychological issues which should have been addressed much earlier, but I do not see him as a danger or liability to Scotland Yard. This could change, and someone will be coming back next year. I advise you to have him see a psychologist regularly."

"So he's okay? You're not going to send him to the madhouse?"

Lambert chuckled slightly, her first show of emotion. "No, I'm not going to send him to the madhouse. Don't worry, your friend isn't in any trouble at the moment." She went down the stairs, and they heard the door close behind her.

John breathed a sigh of relief. "You're okay, Sherlock."

"Of course I'm fine. The answers are obvious."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I don't think she was quite so convinced of your sanity, though."

Sherlock closed his eyes again as John sputtered indignantly. "What do you mean, 'not convinced of my sanity'?"


End file.
